The Burning Man
by shootingstella
Summary: I could be martyred for my Religion — Love is my religion — I could die for that. I could die for you. –Lord Byron. In no way is this supposed to be a re imagining of the first season. It is its own plot for a reason. Warnings: references to cutting and bloodletting, mild sexual content, character death lol .


So many thank yous to Salmon for her fantastic SpaG skills and what i'm assuming must be a fucking Master's degree in Puritan society. I bothered her incessantly and she's a saint.

...

Saint Salmon. Wow that's fantastic.

Anyway, I'm also super grateful to Lola, who was a wonderful set of fresh eyes and opinions when I couldn't bare to look at this story another second.

* * *

**Salem Massachusetts**

**1692**

* * *

Violet Harmon was perched on the edge of her bed, eyeing the folded tent of parchment that was waiting on her dressing table.

When she couldn't bear the anticipation any longer, she made a mad dash for the note, snatching it up and flopping back into bed with the paper clutched to her chest.

She stilled her breathing and slowly unfolded the paper.

_Every thought of you feels like burning to my flesh, and every inch of you is heaven to me.  
I could not sleep; thoughts of your lips kept my sinful mind awake. _

It was from Tate; she knew it was. He was mysterious and sneaky and he liked to express those characteristics sometimes by climbing through her window at night to leave her sea shells and flowers and declarations of his love.

She felt the blood that should be staining her cheeks rush elsewhere as thoughts of her last encounter with Tate swirled in her mind.

As she let her hand creep lower and lower towards that unholy heat between her legs, she pushed all reminders of punishment and judgment from her mind, focusing instead on how wonderful he made her feel.

Violet Harmon had been raised to be a believer, a pilgrim of the Lord, but nothing could be further from her truth.

She was born into a community that would have hung her from the gallows just for the thoughts in her head.

The people around her wore her last nerve, blind sheep being lead around by their minister.

These people spent their lives surrendering their humanity in hopes of eternal salvation but she pitied them because a life free of sin wasn't very free at all.

Violet didn't know how she would escape but she knew that one day she would need to, because this was not where she belonged.

For now though, she had to make do with the small freedoms she could enjoy behind closed doors.

Despite the fact that she had no idea what she was doing, she kept at it; relying on instinct and repeating whatever felt best until she was crumpling the letter in her hand; finally cumming in an explosion of his words and his eyes and dreams of his touch.

In all honesty it was a miracle that she had even found Tate; some days she went so far as too wonder if he was a gift from that God she barely believed in.

Their flirtation, or courtship, started out innocently enough. It had been a downright proper romance filled with walks around the edge of the forest and his smiling eyes, always already looking at her when she sought him out in a crowd.

But after a few months, they each began to slip up, usually in turn and raising the stakes just a bit higher each time.

During their last meeting, she wound up pressed in between a tree and his body, his hands sliding down her sides to grasp at her hips, while he whispered soft words in her ear. The way her breath blew hot and ragged across his neck should have left him without a doubt in his mind that she wanted more, and his letter confirmed the same for her.

His letter...

It was the type of thing that could land him in the stocks if anyone ever got their hands on it.

She hurried out of her dressing clothes and into something more suitable for chores, practically flying down the stairs and tossing the note into the open flue on the stove.

She watched it smolder into ash while she busied herself with the tea kettle.

Once she was satisfied that the evidence was destroyed and they were both safe, she took her tea and a seat at the table opposite her father.

Ben Harmon was a large intimidating man, a beacon of godliness in the community with a bitter and cold undertone that only his wife and child were privy too.

He was prone to hissy fits; never a sound the neighbors could overhear, but a silent tirade of rage that could have broken the strongest woman's spirit in two.

That being said, it usually left Vivien Harmon in shambles.

Ben's most recent explosion came on the heels of his political failure, when his campaign for assistant magistrate was cut off at the knees by Charles Montgomery. It was no secret in the town that Doctor Montgomery had his problems, namely an ether addiction and a wandering eye. Ben Harmon saw him as a charlatan and a threat to the righteous path he worked so hard to keep this town on.

Soon after this blow up, as a result of some obligatory gesture of reconciliation, her mother became pregnant for the eighth time in her life.

Everything was happiness and hope in the Harmon household for nine peaceful months, until Vivien gave birth to her seventh stillborn two days earlier.

It really was a shame, because there was a time when Vivien had been a wonderful mother; kind and warm and nurturing, but too much tragedy had left her a shell of her former self.

After Violet was born, Vivien had known only the heartache of losing children.

"How's Mother today?" Violet asked quietly, ignoring the breakfast set out in front of her.

"She's in bed, and she is not fit for visitors. Finish your tea and get on with your errands."

Violet nodded, smirking inwardly as she considered hurling the cup at Ben Harmon's disgusting face.

The shock, the blood, and her eventual hanging that would surely ensue were enough to keep her mouth shut and her posture relaxed.  
She drained her cup and fetched her basket, leaving without another word.

* * *

Once the door closed behind Violet, Ben Harmon pushed his nose out of The Good Book and his chair away from the table.

He knocked twice on Vivien's door but heard only whimpers in response. He entered and found her lying in the fetal position, sweltering beneath a thin sheet, soaked in equal amounts of tears and sweat.

"Vivien," he said, without enough compassion in his voice. "You need to stop this."

"If you're going to mock me, just leave Ben!" she whined, before pulling the sheet up over her head, trying to disappear.

She was delusional in his opinion, deciding that seven still-births were too many to be natural. She was certain that dark forces were at play here. But the way she was acting, thrashing about and screaming made her seem more like a woman possessed than an innocent victim.

It was a dangerous game she was playing here, if anyone else saw her, she would be locked up for sure; maybe even put to death.

For the sake of his reputation, he could not allow his wife to be taken away.

He needed to either eliminate or validate her insanity, and he could only think of one way to do that.

This was something he had been praying about for the past forty eight hours; begging and pleading over. The pages of his Bible were wrinkled and damp to match his brow.

Lying was sinful.

Making false accusations was sinful.

But he needed to make things right, and he needed to remember that his wife's hysteria, like everything else, was a message, maybe even a gift, from The Lord.

He needed to use it, for the sake of his community.

He took a deep breath, reassuring himself once more that any personal gains his actions might award him were unintentional and sat down on the side of his wife's bed.

"It was that blasted Montgomery woman wasn't it dear?" he asked in a soft whisper with a hand on her shoulder.

"I see the way she gives you the evil eye when we go into town. She's unable to have children; I bet she did it out of jealousy."

Suddenly Vivien was climbing out of bed, hanging onto his forearms just like she was hanging on his every word. She was so desperate to be listened to and understood that she would have gobbled up any accusation like a starving man.

Ben simply nodded along with his own words, vaguely aware of his wife's reaction, but mostly focusing on the way Charles Montgomery would fall from grace once word got out of his wife's bad habits. Then the position of assistant magistrate would be his.

* * *

Tate came staggering down the creaky wooden stairs and into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It was a quarter to noon and the women at the kitchen table clicked their tongues at him for sleeping so late.

His mother, Constance Langdon, the town's midwife was sitting at the head of the table. To her left Billie Dean was cutting the deck of tarot cards and to her right Nora Montgomery was absent mindedly staring into a teacup filled with dregs.

"Out all night stirring up trouble?" Constance asked in a mischievous tone.

Tate pressed his lips together looking innocent, before assuring her that he never left his bed.

"Everyone in this room is perfectly aware of the fact that i_you've/i_never needed to."

Tate smirked as he filled the kettle with water and placed it on the hearth.

Nora reached out for him and he walked into her embrace, peering into her cup and winking in response to whatever he apparently saw in there.

She giggled, remarking for the hundredth time how tall he was, and how she remembered when he couldn't see what was on the table in front of him.

He smiled and pulled up a chair next to hers so they could pour over her cup like they used to when he was a boy.

Nora had been like a second mother to Tate while he was growing up.

Well, no. If he was being honest, Constance had been like a second mother to him, because her pathetic excuse for child rearing paled in comparison to what Nora had done for him.

Constance used him, and would have kept using him until he was all used up if it hadn't been for Nora.

She stepped in, too many times to count, and reminded Constance that Tate was a child, not just a tool.

It didn't take long for the focus of the room to shift from Tate's astral gallivanting to Billie Dean who was beginning to lay down her cards.

She turned over the first card; Judgment.

She and Nora exchanged looks.

The second; The Devil.

Constance sighed and drew in a long sip of what Tate knew was a lot stronger than earl grey.

And the third; The Hanged Man.

"Well then," Tate said as he pushed away from the table to fetch the whistling kettle.

Before they could begin a much needed discussion about the significance of those cards, a knock at the door startled them all.

Tate was quick to pour some hot water into Nora's cup, splashing away any trace of her divinations and Billie Dean collected her cards, burying them deep in her corset.

Constance tossed back her last sip of 'tea' and rose to open the door.

Outside, the Constable was standing beside an open wagon drawn by two sickly looking horses.

The prison carriage.

"We're here to collect Nora Montgomery," he said without any emotion.

"On what charges?" Tate demanded in an attempt to seem innocent through ignorance.

"Accusations of witchcraft," the man answered harshly while he obviously sized up the situation in front of him.

It was accepted, it was unavoidable to some extent, but it still knocked the air out of the room. The women were lucky that Tate was home, because three unrelated women sitting alone in a kitchen, even though only one was being accused, would have landed them all in the stocks.

Tate tried to physically interfere as the man took Nora roughly by the arm and pulled her through the door, but Constance stopped him with nails that bit into his bicep.

When the door clicked behind his beloved aunt and the scum that took her away, he turned his rage on the other women.

"What is wrong with the two of you? How could you allow them to just take her?" he bellowed, shaking the house, but they didn't flinch. They were used to his temper by now.

Billie Dean sighed deeply as she began sipping from Nora's forgotten tea cup, probably eager to get to the bottom and look for clues.

Constance simply smoothed out the puckered dents that her nails had left in Tate's shirt and spoke to him softly like she would an angry child.

"You know that we can't risk exposing anyone else."

His entire body stayed rigid, angry breaths puffing from his nose.

"And you know better than anyone else, that we can do more from the kitchen, than a team of wigs could manage from a courtroom."

This was something he was willing to accept, and with a sullen nod he pulled away from his mother and headed out to the stables but not without a silent promise to himself that if the women didn't handle this, he would make things right himself, like he so often found himself doing.

After an hour or so trying to clear his mind with chores, Tate realized that his dismal disposition wasn't going anywhere. Leaving the rest of his work for later, he headed off into the woods hoping to find Violet.

She never failed to improve his day.

Tate walked straight into the middle of the town where the outdoor market dominated the majority of the square. He noticed her right away, filling her basket at one of the grocer's stands.

He stayed about ten paces behind her, waiting for her to notice him on her own. He wondered if he was giving her that eerie sensation that can only be described as 'being watched'.

He must have been, because he watched her head pick up from the strawberries she had been so intently focused on, and swivel in each direction until she spotted him.

Her reaction to seeing him was such pure excitement and joy that he had to laugh.

She whipped back around and finished paying for her fruit; he saw the way her movements were rushed now that she was eager to get to him.

He leaned casually against the wooden post of the blacksmith's stall waiting for her to join him.

He only took his eyes off of her for a second, but when he looked back up, she was disappearing into the crowd away from him.

He lurched forward, unable to understand why she was leaving, but just in time, she turned her face towards him and gave him her best 'come follow me' look as she took off towards the outskirts of town and the impending forest.

She wanted him to follow her, and it made his gut twist up in the best kind of knots as he pushed away from his post and took off after her.

She weaved through the crowd, looking back coyly every so often, always seeming pleased when she saw he was following behind her.

When she finally made it through the crowd and into the clearing before the forest, she didn't hesitate, but kept running; ducking behind trees and bushes to hide from him.

Outside the market, there were no clumsy bodies or curious eyes to keep his pace slow and careful, so he was closing in on her.

She swore under her breath when she reached a solid wall of rock formation, stretching at least twenty feet to either side of her and ascending upwards at too steep an angle to climb.

The chase was over and he proved it when he came to a quick and sudden stop against her, forcing her backwards into the stone.

She let her grocery basket slip from her fingers and land besides her feet as he pinned her wrists to the rock behind them.

"This isn't appropriate behavior," she stated between gasping breaths.

She was stating the truth but she made no effort to free herself from his grip.

"Says who?" he whispered, his breathe still coming in labored puffs, warm and heavy against her neck.

"The law," she answered vaguely, stifling a shiver.

"The petty laws of man don't matter out here Violet."

He pulled back a few inches from her face so that he could look into her eyes while he spoke. "This is not the land of magistrates and ministers."

She smiled; his words never failed to give her hope for a world beyond what she knew.

"There are more powerful forces in the forest then small boys playing dress up in wigs and overcoats."

"What kinds of forces?"

"Good ones…. And ones that are dark."

She was hanging on his every word.

"Magical forces Violet."

"That's madness!" she exclaimed, shattering the glorious self-image that her previously rapt attention had built for him.

"You don't believe in magic?"

"Of course not."

"Well do you believe in your father's religion? In his god?"

Despite all of the intimate moments they had shared, this one made Violet feel the most vulnerable. This was more dangerous than their little affair.

"I don't believe in much," she answered simply, trying to keep it vague.

"Do you believe in me?" he asked.

Violet laughed, "No! Sometimes I think I've made you up."

Tate was bringing his face closer to hers again; the importance of their conversation had past, her insulting disbelief was forgotten, and an opportunity for contact was presenting itself. "I'm here. I'll always be here."

"Show me?" her voice was tiny but she was angling her face towards his with all the confidence in the world.

He whispered her name as he released his grip on her wrists, sliding his hands up her arms and over her shoulders.

One climbed up her neck and the other wrapped around to the small of her back to hold her away from the wall and closer to him.

He kissed her cheek first, something they had done before, something that, while exhilarating, was familiar to her. He moved slowly, mildly aware that he might scare her away, pressing his lips into the very corner of her mouth.

Another kiss, closer to the center of her mouth, and she still showed no signs of running.

Finally his nose brushed against hers as their lips met full force.

She parted her lips and let him in, wondering how she could have gone so long without this.

* * *

Tate and Violet parted ways in the woods behind the Harmon estate. He left her with lips raw and swollen like bee stings from his relentless sucking and biting while she left him with the her taste on his tongue and a dull unsatisfied ache in his core.

The concept of ever really getting i_enough/i_ Violet was ridiculous but today gave him an idea of just how badly he needed her... more of her, all of her.

She was different, special even, the kind of person who could understand things that were outside the accepted normal of their world.

Lucky for him since he was far from normal.

If he hadn't gotten so distracted by her lips and her breath and her hands climbing up his bare back… and that ache was flaring again; angry for letting her leave him for even a second. But he needed to ignore it because if he hadn't gotten so distracted then maybe he would have been able to show her other things. Things that she would be able to feel and touch and believe in; the kind of things he dabbled in and had been steeping in since his birth.

It was important to him, despite the way it bound him to his bloodsucker of a mother, he valued his gifts above all else and he needed so badly for someone to understand them.

To understand him.

* * *

"I have a feeling that you aren't being honest with me Billie," Constance snapped as she paced nervously between the kitchen and sitting room.

Billie Dean was blowing out the candles in the center of the table and scrubbing at the intersecting chalk lines that had been drawn around them. "Not everything that needs to be told, needs to be heard."

"Don't give me that line of rubbish you reserve for the dammed and the dying," Constance hollered, coming to an abrupt stop the second she heard her own words.

"Me?" She asked spinning around on her heal to face Billie.

"Not you," Billie assured with an eye roll because Constance Langdon's first concern was always Constance Langdon.

"You? Nora? One of the other women?"

"No it's no one in the coven."

"Then why should I ca-"

Billie Dean covered her eyes to avoid having to watch the painful realization dawn across her friend's face.

"No. Not Tate."

She was clutching her chest and sinking into the nearest chair.

"Not my boy."

Billie was shaking her head regretfully.

"When will it happen? Can we prevent it?"

"No. I haven't even seen how it will happen. We can't prevent something we don't expect."

"You are a fool if you think I will stand by idly while he dies!"

"If we act, we could do more harm than good Constance. This is why I don't tell people when I see misfortune in their futures. Desperate men make too many mistakes."

Constance was silent.

She rose to her feet again. "If we cannot prevent it, will you at least let me prepare for it?"

Billie Dean had made her way across the room and was fishing a flask out from a dusty cabinet, pouring them each a teacup of tranquility.

"How do you mean?" she asked.

"If we are unable to stop his death, we need to be sure that our powers won't die with him."

"I thought of that, but how can we possibly…"

"We'll just have to hope that his gifts are transferable, the same way his fathers were," Constance said with a grimace.

Billie sighed, "Where the hell are we going to find a virgin in this town?"

* * *

Violet didn't get home until the sun had already begun to set but things were finally beginning to look brighter.

Her hands had finally found where they belonged running across the skin beneath Tate's shirt and she couldn't help hoping that the rest of her body might join them soon.

She was giggling to herself in the kitchen, washing off whatever strawberries were left after her and Tate's make out session had dissolved into snack time, when an unfamiliar voice startled her.

"Leave those Miss Harmon, I'll be taking care of that now."

She spun around to see an older woman with brilliant red hair and one vacant eye brewing a cup of tea.

"Who are you?" Violet asked, completely forgetting her manners.

The woman smiled tightly, "My name is Moira, I'm here to help your mother run the home while she recovers."

"Oh," Violet responded, not sure if the new help hinted towards an improvement or a decline in her mother's state of wellness.

"Why don't you take this in to her? She's just recently rejoined the living," the older woman said, this time with a hint of compassion and Violet was relived, taking the tea cup into the sitting room where she saw her mother sitting in a rocking chair, happily knitting and humming to herself.

Ben was sitting across from her, reading the newspaper for a jovial change in material and as Violet sat down in her usual chair with her own needle point, for a moment, everything was perfect.

* * *

Tate rushed into his house with a flurry of excited energy, and found his mother and Billie Dean almost exactly where he had left them.

They both greeted him with sad, quiet little noises of acknowledgment; it made him stop short, forgetting all the joys of Violet, to examine them further.

Constance had bags under her eyes that hadn't been there earlier this morning, and Billie Dean was stirring her tea absent-mindedly, looking like a dog that had just gotten the stick.

"Bad news?" he asked, taking an apple off the counter top and polishing it on his shirt.

Billie Dean just grimaced and tried to wave him and his questions away.

He quickly gulped down the bite he had just taken, "Is it about Nora?"

This made Billie Dean smiled a bit, despite her current melancholy mood. As cut and dry and Constance's concerns were, Tate's were even more predictable. It was probably the reason he reacted so poorly when Constance brushed off his question like it had been ridiculous and told him that he shouldn't worry himself with such petty things.

The look in his eyes was pure rage as he began stepping back, away; putting as much space in between himself and his mother as he possibly could.

Billie Dean watched him leave through the back door, and all she could do was silently pray that he wasn't going to make any mistakes that would cost him his life.

Once he was deep in the forest, Tate quickly located the dead hollowed out tree that the women used to store their magical tools.

He pulled out his mother's crystals and Billie Dean's Spirit Board, loading them into his bag and making his way to the clearing.

Once the five crystals were arranged and connected with chalk lines, he set himself and the board in the center.

Before he could do anything to help Nora, he would need to get some information. He was actually impressed with himself; thinking before acting. It was very out of character, but a situation like this called for it, especially since he was working alone.

He needed to know who had accused her and what the best way to get revenge might be.

Tate slowly lowered himself into a trance like state, letting the sounds of nature take over his mind and body.

His hands moved to the paddle instinctively and with a crack of his neck, he felt himself become taken by the spirits in the forest.

He watched as they moved his hands for him, answering all of his questions and slowly filling his dormant mind with a dull sense of panic.

In time, the spirits retracted and the fuzzy edges around his vision cleared. The sounds of the forest started to tinkle in, losing all traces of their former distortion, but he couldn't appreciate them. He simply fell backwards onto the bare earth behind him; exhausted and completely miserable.

He knew everything now, and he wished he could erase it from his mind. He knew about Vivien's miscarriage, he knew that Nora had truly been the one to cause it. He knew about Ben Harmon's lies and coercion and selfish intentions disguised by devout nonsense.

He also knew that Violet was their daughter, and that no matter how much he craved her understanding, he needed to choose here and now between her love and his responsibilities.

Should he remain loyal to the woman who had been so much of a mother to him, or let everything go; let that horrible man walk free, coming out on top of his pathetic scheme.

Was Violet enough of a reason to turn his back on the coven? Maybe.

But trying to keep them both would only endanger her. He had wanted to show her his world once, but his world was quickly becoming something that he would be ashamed to let her see.

He had done bad things before of course, hurt people; good people. But the thought of betraying Violet's trust, trust she so freely gave him as he hurt the people she loved, it turned his gut.

He wanted her acceptance so desperately, but after tonight it would be too much to ask, even from her contemporary mind.

He needed to let her go, before she dragged him any further away from his responsibilities, and before he could drag her into hell.

He returned the tools to their hiding place and headed home; he had work to do, but he wouldn't need to go far.

* * *

Constance said a silent prayer of thanks when she got home that night and found Tate already asleep. She wasn't sure if she was strong enough to have this conversation with him at the moment. His features looked drawn and she tried not to dwell on the possibility of his dropping dead from sheer exhaustion. That would be her fault and no one else's.

After this, if he escaped his grim fate, perhaps she would make an effort to go easier on him.

She closed his bedroom door tight, a meager gesture of parental protection and headed off to bed.

* * *

He never needed to leave his bed.

Violet was asleep when he found her; she looked so calm, so peaceful.

That was how she deserved to be, always.

He stepped softly over to her desk, fishing a piece of crumpled parchment out of his pocket and smoothing it out against the wooden surface.

With a borrowed pencil, he scrawled the only words he could think of that would make letting her go okay.

Could he finish it with a simply written 'goodbye', could he get away with leaving it at that?

No, he decided she deserved more.

She was about to take away his choice anyway; waking with a start, and then starting again once she saw the boy in her room.

After the general shock wore off, she pulled herself up into a seated position with a big smile on her face.

"I caught you, finally!" she was whispering with as much excitement as she could manage, but when all he gave her in return was a sad, weak smile, her expression fell.

"What's wrong?"

"Violet," he whispered, his voice was thick with emotion, "Something's changed Violet, for me."

She tipped her head to the side, but even as he dropped his chin to his chest, he knew she was staring at him. He could feel her eyes burning into the crown of his head.

"I've, I've done things, bad things. And I need to leave you alone from now on."

She was scrambling to meet him at the edge of her bed, "That's not what I want though Tate."

"It's not what I want either," he admitted shaking her hand off of him, "But it's for the best and that's what I care about. All I can afford to care about."

Her tears spilled over once he rejected her touch and the words that followed sent her retreating back towards her pillow.

"I love you Violet, and I won't let anyone or anything hurt you. Not even me."

He saw the way she recoiled into herself; elbows locked into her palms and shoulders trying to swallow up her neck. She wasn't okay right this second, but he knew she would be.

She would be fine without him and without her; he could be himself, no matter what that meant.

Tate crossed the room slowly fingering the note on her desk softly before making a show about climbing onto the window ledge. She watched him as he 'climbed down' but he simply let himself fall, waking up the next second with an imagined thud in his own bed.

He was only half done for the night.

* * *

Constance Langdon rolled over in bed, sandwiching her head in between the folds of her pillow. The sun wasn't up yet but there was a persistent booming coming from outside her window. It continued for another two minutes, showing no sign of stopping, so she reluctantly rolled out of bed and into a dressing gown. A sleepy stumble sent her colliding with her window ledge. She gasped as her front half lurched over the sill, but when she saw what was beneath her, she dissolved into a groan.

She swore under her breath as her bare feet stomped down the stairs.

"Tate!" she hissed once she reached the backyard.

He looked up from his work, startled like some kind of wild animal.

His eyes were crazy and she instinctively took a step back from him until he let the axe fall from his hand.

"What are you doing dear?" she asked, adjusting her tone to handle what looked to her like a volatile situation.

He shrugged as he looked down at the weeks-worth of fire wood he had just chopped, "Couldn't sleep."

He picked the axe up again and brought it down swiftly on the chunk of wood left on the block.

Constance jumped, but collected herself quickly.

"Anything planned?" he asked her suddenly, almost hopefully and it startled her more than the swing of his ax.

"What do you mean Tate?"

He walked past her and tugged his shirt off the fence post, pulling it on. "You know what I mean. Any _work_ planned?"

His tone was oddly agreeable.

"Well, there is one ritual, coming up, next full moon. We would greatly appreciate your help." Sometimes Constance couldn't even blame herself for manipulating the people around her when they made it so damn easy all the time.

"Great," he said with a hollow tone of satisfaction. This is what he needed. If he was going to turn his back on everything, living only for the craft, then he would need to submerge himself. Fully.

"Don't you want to know what we're doing before you agree to it?"

"Are you going to sacrifice me to the gods?" his voice held a note of humor but in all seriousness, it was an honest question.

Constance shook her head violently, "No, nothing of that sort."

"Well then just tell me when and where."

He noticed the way his mother's jaw had fallen to the floor, "What?" he asked with a smirk.

"I just wasn't expecting you to be so compliant."

He shrugged, "I have a responsibility to the coven."

She gaped at him, trying to figure out if he was being serious or not.

"And I need to start acting like it."

* * *

When Violet woke up the next morning, she had a brief moment of oblivious bliss. But as soon as she rolled over and felt the dampness that was soaking her pillow the heartbreak of the night before came rushing back to the forefront of her mind.

Had he really even been here?

Could it have all been just a dream?

There was a familiar tent of parchment on her desk; Violet stumbled out of bed, reaching for it through bleary vision.

The finality of the sentiment on the paper confirmed her worst fears and sent her reeling into a fit of hysterics.

_I love you,_

_Goodbye._

Violet fell to the floor with a thud. Not even Tate wanted her; she was too dark, wicked, and wrong for him. She should have known; shouldn't have hoped that he was different, different enough to love her.

With her arms wrapped around her knees, she settled her cheek against her knees to cry it out.

It wasn't until she choked on a particularly vicious sob that she realized she was all alone.

Not in the scheme of things she guessed, but at the moment.

She had been carrying on like a child for the last fifteen minutes and neither of her parents had come to find her and scold her or perhaps comfort her.

Violet dried her tears on her sleeve and poked her head around her bedroom doorway.

Silence, but then a loud noise; it sounded like furniture moving.

She crept closer to the stairway where should could hear more, men's voices.

Her father's, but then another unfamiliar one drifted up the stairs.

Quick and quiet steps carried her down the stairs and into the small hall space before the kitchen where she stood for a few moments.

The strange man was arguing with her father, "Your wife's death was no accident Mr. Harmon."

Violet's blood ran cold.

Was her mother dead?

"This was not my doing! How could you accuse me of such a thing? I love my wife!"

Violet, feeling not so much brave, as just unbearably curious, peaked around the corner of the wall to see what was going on.

The constable, Officer Warwick, a man she had only seen a few times around town, was bending her father over the kitchen table to tie his hands behind his back.

"Like I said Mr. Harmon, her death was no accident, and we know the kind of trouble she's been giving you lately. You were alone in your chambers with her all night, and morning found her dead. You're our only suspect."

Violet retreated back up to her room as the Constable laughed darkly at her father's misfortune and insistence of innocence.

As Violet sunk down onto the floor besides her bed, the sounds of Ben being hustled out the door and into the prison carriage poured in through her window.  
She couldn't cry though, she didn't feel sad.

She didn't feel anything.

She was only alone.

* * *

Moira had been reduced to a shaking mass by the time the dust settled.

The constable had come so suddenly and he had left the same way.

He was barely in the house for long enough to justify taking Mister Harmon into custody.

But after the town doctor found no natural cause for Vivien's death, he had declared it a murder.

And who else was capable of such a crime in such close quarters?

After consulting any normal person with a limited range of understanding, the woman's husband was the natural conclusion.

But a woman like Moira, with a wider body of worldly knowledge to draw from knew there were always more possibilities.

Moira was privy to the latest swirl of gossip making its way around the coven and she had enough backstory to understand the dilemma in full.

Mrs. Harmon had accused Nora or witchcraft, rightfully so, not that that mattered.

Tate's unbreakable bond with his Auntie Nora was something each of the witches envied, but no one would envy it now, now that he was going around killing in her honor.

And Tate's foreseeable death had now most definitely been sealed by his actions. How Billie's prophecy would come to fruition, she couldn't be sure, but each second that past was a wasted one.

She knew what Tate's demise would mean to the power of the coven and the prospect shook her to her core.

She wiped the cold sweat from her chest with a handkerchief and followed the young girl upstairs, perching on the tips of her toes to peak through the door, just barely left ajar.

Behind that poorly closed door, Violet was dragging the point of her sewing scissors over her arm in short shaking lines.

Moira was disturbed but not surprised. She was familiar with the principles of bloodletting and she understood the urge.

Sometimes a darkness welled up inside a person and it needed to be let out. Sometimes an emotion needed to be felt so clearly that pain was the only option.  
But this poor girl was going about things all wrong.

That darkness, that raw and exquisite passion should be harnessed, never drained and wasted in the wash bowl.

Moira quietly returned to the kitchen and reminisced about the days when her own power was still too new to understand How instead of turning to a blade, she had relied on the acceptance of men to express it.

She had been a bit of a filthy whore.

It was Constance who had saved her, showed her that while no one had any right to judge her actions as wrong, they were most certainly a waste.  
The coven, still in its formative years back then, had turned her life around.

She still drew her power from her sexuality, but now she got a lot more then 'off' for her trouble.

The young girl upstairs obviously saw her blood as some manifestation of her pain, of her power.

She knew someone else like that.

Moira gathered her things as she headed out the door and into town; she needed to reach the other woman and give them the news.

Everyone was going to get exactly what they needed.

Violet would find a new place to belong, a family and a bit of hope for the future, and the women would get the willing virgin they needed to preserve Tate's power.

* * *

"I don't know what makes you think you'll be able to sway her, a dried up old hag like yourself," Constance sneered over the brim of her tea cup.

Moira bristled, obviously insulted.

"Get one of the younger girls to do it," Constance said, dismissing any opposition with a wave of her hand.

"What's going on?" a curious voice came from the top of the stairs.

"Just sorting through some details, nothing you'd find interesting, dear boy," his mother assured him sweetly, but her face fell when she heard his weight drop down a few more steps.

"I want to help," he said. Constance didn't understand her son's new found enthusiasm, and while it was most definitely going to make her life easier, he was a bit clingy lately.

Billie Dean scoffed, "You've helped enough," she said pointedly. She was knew how he had spent his evening; she always knew. But she valued discretion above all else and she wouldn't let the other women find out.

Moira scolded her with a look though she had some suspicions herself, "I think he has a right know, the part he'll be playing..."

"It shouldn't be anything new to him," Constance muttered with an eye roll, "It's a fairly common practice."

It was Moira's turn to roll her eyes, "He should still be prepared for-"

"We'll be working a very important spell Tate, and it will require a union to work properly," his mother said casually.

Tate's mind passed from confusion, to understanding, to Violet in a matter of seconds. "Who…"

"No one at this table," Billie Dean assured him with a laugh, "A new girl, someone your own age."

Tate nodded with more acceptance then he expected from himself. Two days ago he would might have refused. Even now, the thought of touching someone else made him a bit sick, but he was singularly devoted to the craft and the coven and he would do whatever they needed. It was his purpose; this is what he was meant to do.

"Fine," he said simply, giving the women a final look over, enjoying the mild shock on their faces, before heading out the back door.

* * *

Moira left not too long after that, back to the Harmon household to speak to Violet.

She resented Constance's insults; calling her an old hag and wanting her to pass the job onto someone younger. She didn't need help; she just needed a touch of magic.

Once inside, she rifled through her bag of possessions, fishing out a small glass vile; the kind that each of the ladies in the coven had, filled about half way with Tate's blood.

The stuff was priceless, capable of more magic then all the cards and crystals in the world. With his death hanging ominously in their future, she felt a pang of regret as she poured a few dropped of her reserve out onto her finger tip, but reminded herself that if this worked, they would all be saved from a powerless fate.

She mumbled a quick spell over the drops of crimson on her finger, stuck a needle through it to draw a bit of her own blood, and quickly rubbed the mixture onto her lips. She dabbed at the edges in the looking glass, smiling to herself as the wrinkles faded and her bad eye cleared.

'Not a day over 23," she said to herself happily as she climbed the stairs to Violet's bedroom.

The knock on her door was so soft that she almost ignored it, but it came again, more persistent and Violet couldn't help but hope it was her mother, here to hold her and tell her it's all been a dream.

But when she toed the door open, there was only a strange woman with bright red hair, staring expectantly back at her.

"Violet?" the woman asked with a shy smile.

She nodded, but tightened her grasp on the doorknob, ready to shut it in the stranger's face.

"Yes?"

"I heard about what happened, to your parents, and I just wanted to tell you…"

"Who are you? How did you get in my house?"

"Your housekeeper let me in."

Violet's eyes widened, she had forgotten all about Moira. The old woman would have to find work elsewhere since Violet doubted she'd be able to keep the house all by herself, let alone a staff.

The woman was still talking when Violet zoned back into reality, something about 'feeling her pain'.

"I don't know you, I don't need your sympathy." She felt wild without the filter of her mother's reproachful glances and her father's harsh judgment. She tried not to admit to herself how much she loved it as she slammed the door.

"Wait, I'm not here to pity you," Moira urged into the wooden barrier between them, "I just… I understand."

Moira could only hear silence on the other side of the door, but Violet was listening.

"I know what it feels like to think that you are completely alone," the older woman in younger skin tried.

She wouldn't have usually let a strange woman into her room, but a combination of feeling fearless, and thinking Moira was downstairs having a cup of tea swayed her to let the door swing open. Moira did her best to hide a self-satisfied smirk as she flounced in and took a seat on the girl's bed.

Feeling like her new found freedom had been taken down a few notches by this strange woman's confidence, Violet relegated herself to a desk chair where she sat and waited. She gave the red-head a once over, looking for any religious tokens, figuring she was about to be recruited into some sort of commune for damaged women.

_Finally, _she though sarcastically, _Someone has come to save my soul._

"I was alone once," the woman said, leaning backwards against outstretched hands. She seemed relaxed, inviting almost and while Violet watched her finger the hem of the bedspread, she decided that this was most certainly not a woman of God.

"Then what happened?" Violet asked, with as much mockery and confidence as she could muster.

"I found a new family, one that I had chosen, one that I could trust."

"Only God can choose your family," Violet said, feeling indignant.

The woman's tone was harsher now, "Sometimes God makes mistakes, and sometimes he forgets you all together."

How could she speak like this? So blasphemously. Surely she must know there could be consequences for her heresy.

"You're wondering why I trust you? Why I speak so freely in front of you?" the woman inquired, practically reading Violet's thoughts.

"I was like you once."

"You said that already," Violet had been impressed for a moment, but she was bored now.

"Not just because I was alone. Because I was too much."

Violet narrowed her eyes.

"And this town, with its churches and family dinners isn't enough for you, and you don't belong here."

The inside of Violet's cheek was becoming raw with worry as this stranger articulated her feelings for her, better then she had ever been able to do herself.  
Moira knew she had the girl right where she wanted her, so she patted the space next to her on the bed for Violet to join her.

"I'm here to invite you," Moira said gently, "To join us, to join our family."

Violet had taken a seat, on the far edge of the bed, not as close as Moira had indicated but it was enough.

"They'll understand you Violet, but most importantly, they'll take care of you."

Violet gulped, the thought of having to fend for herself had crossed her mind once or half a dozen times since they took her father away. She had seen what became of girls her age when they were left alone; it was never pretty.

And that's what she was, wasn't she? Alone.

Her father would certainly be put to death for murder, and her mother was already there.

Perhaps in another lifetime, she would have been able to fall back on Tate once her parents abandoned her. They could have gotten married, started a family and been positively normal.

But that wasn't in her cards; normal never was.

"Why would they want to help _me_?"

"Because you won't exactly be a useless addition to our circle," Moira assured her.

Violet bristled at the word circle; she felt like it implied a lot about the nature of this 'family' without really trying.

"Well what would I have to do?"

Moira's lips curled up into a wicked shape, "Well, you're a virgin right?"

Violet nodded.

"Well there's a special ceremony coming up, under the next full moon."

Violet's suspicions were confirmed immediately; these women were witches. She took a moment inside her own mind to decide what she thought of that. Lives filled with the sins the bible warned her about didn't sound too different from her own. She tore herself away from wondering exactly how disturbing that was to listen to the rest of the witches spiel.

"And we'll need to spill virgin blood for it to work."

"You want to kill me?!" Violet's voice picked up in a combination of fear and disbelief. How had things escalated so quickly?

"No," Moira reassured quickly, "Spill i_virgin/i_ blood," she repeated with a little more intention and a suggestive look.

"Oh," Violet says like it's nothing. "OH!" she exclaims again after a moment once she finally understood. Although it may be a lot less severe than death, surrendering her virginity isn't exactly something she should be so accepting of.

"And why do you need me for this?"

"Oh Violet, there isn't a ipur/iitan among us," the other woman said with a laugh.

How refreshing. They were sinners, but they didn't seem to see themselves that way, and they simply laughed when others did.

Now, not only did Violet need to join them for lack of anywhere else to go, she wanted to join them.

She had always been attracted to the darkness, and now this was her opportunity to seize it.

"So this… 'act', it will prove my loyalty, to the other women?"

Moira's smile was ecstatic, "They'll accept you completely."

Violet smiled at the prospect, "And what if I should become with child because of this?"

"That would probably please the other women very much. And you would suffer no judgment or persecution. The coven will protect you. Always."

* * *

"Sorry to hear about you wife," a woman's voice drawled from the cell opposite his.

Ben looked up, and over, turning his attention away from the wall in front of him for the first time in two days.

When he saw Nora Montgomery eyeing him from across the aisle between their cells his heart leapt into his throat.

"How dare you! Murderer!" he yelled, his body colliding with the wrought iron gates before he even realized he was on his feet.

Ben fell back again, light headed from the movement, his vision blotting out.

"Careful there, wouldn't want to orphan that precious little girl of yours."

"Don't talk about my family," he managed through the wooziness.

"Not much of a family anymore," she returned, as though she truly found it unfortunate.

"You killed my wife!" he raged, angry and clear headed but still on the floor.

"No I didn't. Don't be ridiculous."

"Then how do you know she's dead?"

"I spent my morning in the stocks, catching up on the town gossip."

He huffed out a thin laugh, more from exhaustion that for the sake of humor, but she flashed him a brilliantly appreciative smile anyway.

"Although I can understand why you would assume the worst of me," she mused, tipped her head back against the wall of her own cell. "She did get me locked up, that would make anyone crave a bit of revenge."

Ben was looking sheepishly at the woman he thought he'd made a scape goat out of, "I am sorry about that," he assured.

"Why?"

"I was only trying to protect her from herself… protect myself too I suppose."

"You mean," she smiled, "You mean you didn't know?"

She was shaking with laughter now, "You just got lucky!" she wailed as she clutched her stomach, crumpling into herself.

He stared at her blankly until she was able to catch her breath a bit, "I'm guilty as sin you stupid git!"

"What are you saying?" Ben Harmon's faith was built like a brick house and it was going to take a lot more than that to break it down.

"I started terrorizing your wife shortly after I found out I couldn't have children; a picture of maternity that woman was, and it made me ill."

Ben's mouth hung open, "You drove her mad." He let this accusation slip with much less rage then his previous ones; now he was borderline terrified.

"Oh don't look at me like that, I'm the least of your worries," she assured him.

His eyes snapped to meet hers, "What do you mean?"

"Well I didn't kill your wife, but I've got a pretty good idea who did."

He rounded his lips to breath out a silent, "Who?"

"Just a boy. A poor mess of a boy, who owes me his life and isn't shy about paying debts."

Ben felt the bile rising in his throat, what sort of madness had he become mixed up in.

"You see, he wasn't conceived in a traditional fashion. One evening his mother went out for a walk in the woods. She came home with torn stockings and the smell of a strange man on her. She spent an hour that night trying to wash him off of her, but some remnants of the night that would stay with her forever. She never saw her attackers face, but once the boy was born, certain things about his father became apparent."

"Do you know who he was?" Ben asked in spite of himself, completely enraptured in the way this woman spun a tale.

"Everyone knows the father. He's as old as dirt and he knows how to leave his mark on a child."

Ben's face was frozen in silent terror. Could she really be implying that this boy was the son of the devil?

"It was a miracle she ever found a man to marry her after that. She explained her situation and he was so understanding, but when they started trying to have children of their own, well that was just a mess. She gave him three babies, but he drowned them all in the river. They were more creatures than children he said, and she assures us to this day that her womb is cursed. He took off without so much as a goodbye one day, after being married to her for almost ten years. Everyone thinks he escaped her, but I'm not so sure."

Her audience was silent.

"But that's another story, back to the boy. In the beginning it was just his mother dabbling, but that's too much power for just one woman. By the time her husband 'left'… more of us had joined her. We were all pathetic shells of the women we once were; abandoned by society or biology, orphans and whores. In positions so similar to the one your daughter has probably found herself in recently."

"That's madness. Violet would never fraternize with women like you. Sick women with no souls; you'll all roast in hell for the way you live."

"Maybe that's true Mr. Harmon, but you can't forget that some of us like the burn."

His gnawing curiosity wasn't satisfied yet, but she was done talking for now, so she gave him a little smile and leaned back in her cell, disappearing from his sight and leaving him alone.

"If you're so powerful, then why are you rotting in jail?" he hollered into the darkness that had begun to invade their space.

She brushed off his doubts; they'd come for her, it was only a matter of time.

Ben Harmon spent the next few hours lost in the depths of Nora's words. By the time the sun had set, he decided the reason he was having so much trouble grappling with this new reality, was that it couldn't possibly be real.

These women might be wicked but they certainly were not witches. Nora Montgomery's entire spiel was madness and in a way, it made him happy.

Any remaining guilt he had felt evaporated because she was a sick woman. She could have been a danger to herself or others. He had done God's work once again, separating the people of his community and a terrible threat. If he wasn't awaiting trial as a suspect in his wife's death, it would have been a pretty good day.

Even now that he had reminded himself of his predicament, his new found justification put him at ease. He leaned his head back against his cell wall and remembered that The Lord would provide.

Half an hour later or so, his relatively peaceful state of almost sleep was disturbed by a loud clanking.

He leaned over to get a better look into the prison corridor, quickly slamming a hand over his mouth to contain the gasp.

Two women standing outside of Nora's cell were speaking in calm hushed tones as the worked on the lock. With a second clang, the door practically fell open and Nora pushed through quickly, drawing in a deep breath of freedom. She savored it, as though the air outside her cell was any different than what she had been breathing all night.

As the women collected their tools, Nora gave Ben a flirtatious little wave and a smile.

He threw his weight against the bars, hollering out for a guard, again and again, desperate for someone, anyone who could stop these women.

No one came and the eerie silence that fell over the prison once the door fell shut behind the women assure him that no one was coming.

He had been wrong before, he realized as he buried his face in his hands.

Someone was providing, but it most certainly wasn't his Lord.

* * *

Night had fallen hours ago but Violet was still awake.

She paced from one end of her bedroom to the other, playing out all of the possibilities of the night in front of her.

The clock showed that it was fifteen minutes before eleven.

Fifteen minutes until the ceremony would begin.

She had no trouble making it out of her house, devoid as it was of life and anyone who had the authority to send her back to bed; she had even sent Moira home early.

The walk through the woods was quick and when she reached the clearing, it was already filled with whispering women and the flickering light of a bonfire at the center.

She had been told when and where to meet them. She understood the why and the how of this evening but she had no idea what she was supposed to do now. So she waited by a thick tree trunk, partially hidden and carefully observing each of the women in what seemed to be their natural habitat.

The first face she looked for was of course the kind red head who had come to speak with her earlier. At first she saw nothing, but then, when one woman moved closer to the center, Violet was able to see her auburn hair illuminated by the firelight. As she turned around though, Violet almost gasped out loud at what she saw. Her housemaid, Moira, was reaching into a large pot with her cup, drawing out a drink. Moira gave a laugh in response to something one of the other women said and Violet's heart stopped. She would have recognized that laugh anywhere. They were the same person.

She should have been frightened but these strange possibilities were crawling into her mind, warping her sense of normal and spreading her cheeks apart with a smile.

She scanned the rest of the crowd, hoping to learn more and uncover new secrets.

There was Nora Montgomery, the woman who her mother had condemned to jail, somehow managing to walk free, as well as Elizabeth was the town harlot and Billie Dean, a widow who had moved here years ago with a small fortune. The rumor mill had churned up a story about her making her money betting the odds back in England. Violet couldn't help but wonder how thin the line between lucky and magic was in this case.

Other women were mixed into the crowd but Violet didn't know them by name and could only imagine the way they fit into this odd bunch.

Violet stood behind her tree watching long enough for the groups excitement to peak with a few shrieks of excitement and a few lines of a song and then mellow again, this time with whispers and murmurs and one set of eyes after another directing their attention to her.

Once the women noticed her presence they squealed with delight, running towards her, moving almost as seamlessly as a single being, and dragging her back towards the fire with them.

There was a cup being passed around and the blissful smile that spread across each woman's face immediately after imbibing, clued violet in to what it really was.

When it came to her she took a big gulp and the women laughed.

_They all seem so kind_, Violet thought. They laughed again and she wondered if maybe she said it out loud by mistake.

She made a point of feeling her lips pressed firmly together before wondering if this really could be where she belonged.

* * *

Ben was throwing his body up against the bars, yelling for the absentee guards to come and help him, to save them all. He had no idea what the witches were planning on doing tonight, deep in the forest, but he was dredging up his self-righteous sense of purpose again, deciding that God had put him here to stop it.  
His weight finally won out against the rickety iron bars and he crashed to the floor on top of them.

Ben scrambled to his feet, rushing through the corridors, towards what he knew served as the office for the prison.

He braced himself for the crush of guards that an escaped prisoner like himself would warrant as he entered the room, but he had clenched for nothing.  
Three guards, and the constable, all unconscious on the floor.

Were they dead? He rushed to the constable's side to check his pulse.

Alive, but in need of being roused.

Slaps and screams were doing nothing so Ben ran outside to the well, hauling up a bucket of cold water.

* * *

The women formed a tight circle around the bon fire; the others had their heads bowed in a devout manner so Violet followed suit.

A new witch emerged from the darkness of the forest that surrounded them.

She paced around the women, chanting a long, melodious sentence in a language Violet had never heard before.

Once she completed one lap around the fire, the women picked up the chanting, the harmony of their voices seeming to fill the forest.

The circle broke apart to make room for this new woman, who seemed to be the leader, to join them. Then before Violet could understand what was happening, her hands were being clasped by the women at either side and they were spinning around the fire; the sound of their chanting mixing with the pounding of their feet against the cold earth.

The spinning of the forest overshadowed the spinning of the drugs in her brain and everything began to melt away at the edges.

She had no idea what the song meant but it had been easy enough to pick up and despite its strangeness, Violet thought it described the way she felt better than she ever could have.

Her feet flew over the ground as everyone picked up their speed.

The tone of the song was changing now, still the same words but now it was demanding. It sounded like the women wanted something… someone.  
He was coming.

The women slowed down to a full stop, still chanting, but without the dance, their song was eerie.

The shadows on the trees no longer danced with them, but encroached on their safety with menacing limbs and shadows.

Violet's high was turning on her and she felt afraid for the first time all night.

How could she go through with this?

How could she get out of this?

The women were dead silent now and she knew he was here.

Violet's stomach dropped. She watched him approach the circle, coming to stand directly opposite her. He was shirtless, dressed only in a thin pair of linen pants and a mask. It was a hideous thing and Moira had been right;he looked like the devil himself, covered in black fur with long horns and a star carved into its forehead.

He broke through the circle and she felt hands on her back pushing her towards him. He was barely a foot away from her now and she could smell the musk of earth and sweat on him.

Hot tears were stinging her eyes, and no matter how much she tried to still it, her lower lip was quivering. The vibrations sent a few tears falling down and before she even had time to hate herself for them, his thumb was swiping across her cheek to wipe them away. As he touched her skin, he let out a thick breath. It was muffled by the mask but whatever influence she was under made it sound like her name.

She shuddered at the sound of it, backing away but he grabbed her arm with one hand and used the other to pull the mask away from his mouth a bit.  
"Violet," he said more clearly this time, "What are you doing here?"

Her eyes were distracted, scanning the space around her, looking for a gap in the circle to escape through.

"I have nowhere else to go," she wined to the voice she thought was in her head.

Violet felt the darkness all around her, pressing against her. She couldn't scream; she could barely breathe.

She shut her eyes and her mouth tight, praying to that God she barely believed in for a miracle.

He took the mask all the way off, letting it fall to the ground and gripping her shoulders.

He needed to calm her down somehow, find out why she thought this life was her only option, and maybe help her escape.

Violet felt herself being dragged in by her would be lover, now assailant, and let out a little whimper.

"Violet," he whispered into her ear, brushing his lips across her cheek and towards the corner of her mouth.

_Well, that's it. I've obviously lost consciousness_, she thought as she heard the only voice she would miss once she was dead.

_What a gift_, she mused as she felt him kiss her, _such a lovely way to go._  
"Violet, open your eyes."

She was hopeful, so hopeful for something better on the other side of her darkness, perhaps death, or maybe a return to consciousness after a terrible dream, so she let her eye lids flutter open.

The chanting was still all around her, but everything was better now. The light from the fire was gentle; the shadows cast by the forest were no longer ominous, and best of all, the face staring back at her belonged to Tate.

She reached up to grab his face, plucking at his cheeks to confirm his existence.

"You really are here..." she muttered.

"I'll always be here," he assured her, smiling wide at the relief in her voice. "If that's what you want…"

She nodded her head happily.

He still looked concerned so she moved to kiss him, but he pushed her back.

"Violet you don't have to do this, I can help you get away. I tried to leave you because I didn't want-"

She silenced him with a finger to his lips. "It's too late for that Tate."

He looked so sad; sad for what she didn't realize she would be giving up, but how could he argue with her when she was pulling him so impossibly close and he had missed her so much.

Violet smiled when he began kissing her back, finally feeling completely happy. Maybe this really was where she belonged. Here, in the forest, with no judgment, no magistrate, no Sunday School; just Tate.

Ben Harmon woke up the constable first. Officer Warwick had walked in on the witches drugging his men, he hadn't gone down easily. When he woke up, he woke up swinging but once he saw Ben, they jumped into action rousing the other officers and assembling a mob.

The men mounted their horses, lit their torches, and rode off into the forest.

Tate's hands were caressing soft circles into the skin beneath Violet's nightgown as he planted kisses down her neck, to her shoulders, then lower as he got to his knees. He tugged her down with him, reattaching their lips and he laid her down on the ground.

She wrapped her legs around his hips as he lowered himself over her. The ground beneath her back was cold and uncomfortable and the chanting from the women was approaching ear shattering volumes but Violet suffered none of that.

All she felt was how much Tate wanted her as he pressed himself into her inner thigh. He had always been so careful to keep that from her, never wanting her to feel embarrassed or coerced; but tonight there were no secrets about their intentions.

The lovers reached for each other almost simultaneously; it was the rhythm of the music that made them to do it, Violet was almost certain.  
Tate shuddered and pushed himself harder into Violet's hand, dropping his lips to her neck.

She gasped but didn't shy away; instead she tightened her grasp and pulled him towards the place where his fingers were currently making a mess of her.  
She whimpered in pain when he entered her, but she urged him to keep going until he was fully inside of her.

Considering all of the effort she had gone through to find where she belonged, she could surely endure a bit of discomfort to give him a place to belong as well.

His movements were slow and measured at first but the choppy cut of his breath on her neck told Violet that he was holding back.

She dug her nails into Tate's back, begging him to give her more. Again, Violet couldn't be sure if the pace of the music was following their quickened movements, or vice versa, but either way, everything was climbing to a fever pitch and Violet only knew one way of coming back down.

The whole thing broke with a scream.

The one from Violet was of ecstasy, muffled into Tate's shoulder as she came undone around him.

The others however were from the women, and they were shrill, fearful sounds, incited by the approaching rumble of horse's hooves.

The men rode into the center of circle and surrounded them almost immediately. Some of the women had taken off running right away and had a chance of escaping this, but in their current state, escape was impossible for the lovers. Violet held her head as her high was violently disrupted. Tate had barely pulled his pants on before he started forcing Violet's nightgown back over her head. She clutched to it, but not nearly as tightly as she clutched to Tate.

How could this be happening?

Someone gripped her arm and hoisted her up onto the horse, folding her over the neck of the animal as the forest echoed chants of 'Burn the Witches!"  
Tate was struggling against the Constable who had dismounted and was wrestling him to the ground. As he watched his love being carried away from him, he screamed her name into the night.

* * *

The trial, if you could even call it that, was brutal.

The entire town had gathered to watch the events unfold. Sitting among them were the witches who had managed to escape the raid; Constance, Billie Dean, the bakers wife names Marcy and a few others. They were quiet for the most part, but did what they needed to do to blend in.

There could be no hard feelings about it though; self-preservation warranted no shame in a heathen community.

The older women were tried first; the lovers were being saved for last as their crimes were the most heinous. Sex rites were one of the most easily demonized practices of witchcraft, as well as a wonderful reinforcement of public prudence, so there would surely be a show.

Violet watched each woman take the stand. What a miserable process. Confess now and be hung with your dignity or deny it all and die as a coward. Rat out some friends and maybe we'll let you rot in jail.

Tate didn't watch at all. He only sat with his head bowed, awaiting his turn. As a man, he knew that he could accuse these women of kidnapping and drugging him, taking advantage of him and trying to ruin his life. He knew he was the only one with a chance of walking free, but what kind of man would that make him?

He volunteered to take the stand before Violet, already confusing and exciting the audience. He stared down the jury as he waited for questioning to begin. They wanted him dead, probably thought it would be best for him. In their twisted minds, it would be kinder then allowing him to keep living as a sinner.

"Tate Langdon, do you confess to the crime of holding congress with the beast?" Judge Harvey asked in a tone that was all mock importance and serious business.

"I do," he confirmed to the scandalized crowd.

The judge tapped the gavel and tried to dismiss him to the gallows, but Tate stopped him short.

"Wait, I have more crimes to confess to," he said cheekily.

A murmur ran through the courtroom.

Tate took a deep breath and dropped his chin to his chest, "I also raped Violet Harmon."

The murmurs turned to gasps immediately and Judge Harvey had to bang his gavel several times to quiet to room.

"Excuse me?" the judge asked.

"I raped her. Kidnapped her, forced her into the forest against her will and had my way with her," he said simply, "In the name of The Dark Lord," he finished, obviously hoping for dramatic effect.

Tate ignored the crowd as they surged into an uproar, only paying attention to the way Violet's eyes were staring at him desperately; probably begging him to stop.

He gave her a small smile, his eyes were sad but they were sure and she broke down with a single choked out sob.

He just wanted to protect her.

Her cry, wildly misinterpreted by the masses earned her instant sympathy.

She was removed from the courtroom in a flurry and Tate was taken away. Violet heard something about his punishment being adjusted to fit the extent of his crimes.

After this, the town would treat Tate Langdon like the devil himself, but to Violet he was her savior.

* * *

Violet stood in the crowd that surrounded the pyre.

Tate was bound to it and Judge Harvey was standing close by. The other women had already been hung, dead and gone in the snap of a finger, or rather in the snap of their necks.

But Tate would suffer. His false crime had earned him the old world punishment, of a slow and hot death.

Violet saw herself screaming, crying; begging for Tate to be released.

She imagined herself lunging for the smoldering base of the fire, letting his fate become hers too.

Judge Harvey threw the match and the crowd around her cheered to watch the witch burn, but all Violet could do was run.

Run far far away until the sounds of the crackling inferno were only a figment of her imagination.

Run to the house that she shared with her father, a man who didn't love her and would forever see her as damaged goods.

And finally, run her sewing scissors down her arms in two deep cuts.

This place had nothing left for her anymore and she needed to leave. After Tate had done so much to save her, perhaps she should have done more to live her life. But she couldn't let him go alone. She smiled as she felt the light headedness wash over her. She would follow after Tate and find him again, hopefully in a place where they could both belong.

* * *

The town square was in chaos, every single villager had gathered around to see his undoing.

He had probably hurt them all at some point and he deserved what he was getting, but he was only taking it because of her.

As Judge Harvey threw the match at his feet, he watched her run away and small smile graced his face. He closed his eyes before she was out of his sight.  
He pictured the face she made that day in the market when she ran into the forest, asking him to follow after her. He would follow after her one day, but not now.

Now he would burn for her.

He would burn forever if he had to.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Tate Langdon didn't have to burn forever.

The debts that were made in Salem Massachusetts that year never died.

They lived on for centuries until that specific clustering of souls was able to recommune and make things right.

It began with the Montgomery's.

Nora got the baby she had always wanted, but the pain and suffering that she had caused corrupted her gift, turning it into something wrong. Something evil.  
The child's mutilated soul served as a gateway, or maybe a trap, to ensnare the other players, no matter how widely they were spread throughout time.

The witches trickled in, either as guests or permanent fixtures, one by one, until finally their high priestess arrived.

That day, when the Langdon's came to The Murder House was when old habits started reemerging.

Nora took little Tate under her protection, saving him from the horrors of the house while Constance struggled with her other three children. The time of drowning them in the lake was long gone, but she did what she could.

Tate was able to find the people who had condemned him all those years ago.

First and foremost, he returned the match Larry had given him all those years ago, before seeking out the jury of his former peers.

The way they had seen death as his only hope was something that been festering, mutating in his mind, in that house.

He shot them all down one by one, sending them to that better place they had put so much stock in.

He gladly surrendered himself to the dream catcher that was The Murder House after that, knowing it was only a matter of time before he would have his second chance.

Constance got out alive… again. That sort of thing tends to happen when you are and always will be your own first priority.

The Harmon's followed soon after; a picture of dysfunction that only several lifetimes of mistreating each other could create.

Tate was obsessed with Violet since the first moment he saw her. He seduced her the same way he always did, with his strangeness and smiles and sex appeal.

When he tried to save her, he failed, and when she died it was by her own hands, like always.

But it was okay, she had followed after him; that was how their game always went.

Her parents died in the house too. Vivien would never have to worry about losing her baby again, and Ben finally got the noose he deserved.

Tate and Violet's reunion was not without the heavy weight of new baggage.

This time, when Tate needed to choose between Nora and Violet, he tried to have both and wound up with neither.

Violet found out what terrible thing he had done, all the people he had hurt, and she left him.

In the meantime, Constance finally got her baby. A child that she had waited so long for and the baby the world had been dreading all this time.

Tate waited patiently for Violet to come back to him.

He knew that she would eventually, and when she did she would have to take all of him. She would have to finally accept him, and then they could finally be happy together in the place where they both belonged.

* * *

**Other Stuff You Should Read**

_Make War_ by OhYellowBird is possibly the best gift I've ever received, and I got an iPad once. It even won the best fic award at the exchange. Go gobble it up.

Cappy's exchange fic made me cry, so y'all should go read_ Lonely Boy and Fire Girl, _so you can cry with me. (spoiler: there will be thighs)

This hasn't been written yet, but LolaBleu is working on a sequel to this story. It'll be set in a more recent century and it's gonna blow your minds. And I'm toying with the idea of a third.

Because fuck Season 2!

Violate forever

Read everything else LolaBleu writes too.

Ginhermi's stories are so fucking original, my favorite quality in reading material. Go read _Nightshades and Pomogranites_ man. It'll make you scream.

Are we done plugging curve? *whispers* read curve again

Also! Everyone should subscribe to Salmonsomethingorother because it's one of Salmon's many alter egos, and the place where she will be posting Parmiga.


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